


and i will reach (to find your heart that's beating)

by peachypan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Getting Together, Love Confessions, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Other, They/Them Pronouns for My Unit | Byleth, byleth is super in love guys, excessive comma usage btw, so is seteth, this is first thing i wrote in forever so be warned :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachypan/pseuds/peachypan
Summary: byleth heals seteth.seteth heals byleth.(sometimes, that's all there is to it.)
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	and i will reach (to find your heart that's beating)

The first thing you do after a battle is see to the injured, so that's what Byleth does.

The healing area of the battlefield is bustling, and the scent of mint is the first thing that greets them. Pleasant as it is, it's a sign of injuries in multitudes, and they know their pulse would quicken in response to this if a heart was in their possession.

It had started simply. Hearing news of a town nearby the monastery having bandit trouble, Byleth, The Golden Deer, and a few dozen troops had dispatched to take care of them. It had been a routine battle, settled quickly with minimal damage. However, the enemy had run deeper than they thought. The ambush on the march back had caught everyone off guard.

The first lesson Jeralt had taught them was that surprise often proved to be the deadliest of foes, and Byleth has experienced that first-hand, many times.

Another thing they've learned: history repeats itself.

Blood stains the grass, and they step over a discarded vulnerary bottle before spotting Claude with Lorenz, pulling an arrow out of his shoulder as Marianne braces against him, her hands radiating a fierce light.

To their left, Bernadetta is carefully bandaging Leonie's wrist. Dorothea is next to them, tenderly holding Ingrid's face, whispering incantations as Lysithea heals the deep gash slashed across Cyril's torso. Byleth watches as it fades into a red, angry line. It would surely scar, and they wonder how many scars would total among them by the time the fighting ceased.

(Thousands, they think. A heavy feeling makes a home in their chest, rubbing like salt in an open wound. )

They do their best healing wounds after that. Despite how quickly they learned it, white magic stills feels like a stranger to them, slippery and soft in their hands in every way a blade was not. Nonetheless, they blaze their way through every wound they find, from Sylvain's broken ankle to the damage overcasting dealt Constance.

It becomes a rhythm. The glow of recover, the splash of a concoction, the cloying scent of salves and the like. The feeling of bandages in their palms was overly familiar, at this point.

They find themselves coming to a halt when they spot Seteth perched upon a crate, his sleeve pulled away to reveal the remnants of a burn curving up his arm. A healer had clearly just finished applying salve to it, and they say something to him before passing him bandages and hurrying away, off to another patient.

Seteth and Byleth had fought as one at the beginning of the battle, as they had become accustomed to doing, but they been forced to part towards the end. Seteth hadn't been injured when they had left him, and guilt sinks its claws into them at the thought they could have prevented such a thing from occurring.

What's done is done, they remind themself severely.

Seteth begins to unroll the bandages, his movement cautious, but Byleth is at his side in an instant.

"Let me," they say, and they wait for Seteth's nod before taking the bandages and kneeling down, starting from his wrist and winding down towards his elbow. Even with the salve and white magic the wound is tender, they figure, as he holds himself rigidly throughout the entire process.

They worry just a little that they're not being gentle enough since they have been crafted to hurt, not heal. But he raises no complaint, so they continue.

"Thank you," he says as they tie it off, and they nod as they stand, uncaring of the dirt on their knees.

"Do you have any other wounds?" They ask, looking him up and down. Upon further inspection, They find a small cut along his jaw, and their hand reaches to cup the side of his face, magic glowing softly on their palm as the cut fades into an indiscernible pale line.

They bring their other hand up to his cheek to get a better view of their handiwork before dropping them and taking a step back, noting with faint surprise that he was smiling at them. It was still a somewhat rare thing for them to behold, Seteth smiling, and they feel a steadiness within them, right where a heart would beat.

"Are you uninjured?" He asks, and they think. Their hands were painfully dry from the numerous fire spells they had cast throughout the battle, and they had taken a fist to the side that was sure to bruise, but other than that? They remained unscathed.

"I am," They speak after a minute, inclining their head. Seteth relaxes, moving to stand as the wounded around them begin to dwindle in number.

"I should be surprised to hear that," he says, moving beside them. "But your very presence here is a wonder in of itself, and that is not something I will forget." He turns to look down at them, and his smile softens into something else. "The sum of who you are is a miracle indeed."

There's something in his tone Byleth can't quite catch, but they find a hint in the way their cheeks pinken, in the warmth of his arm brushing theirs.

(Well, whatever it was, they would do their best to reel it in. After all, they weren't the best fisher of Garreg Mach for nothing.)

But being a miracle, a wonder? That was all Seteth. The compassion and devotion to the world and its humans he possessed despite all the ways it had wronged him was something they found far more admirable. There is no one more steadfast or more true of heart than he, they thought, and the fact that he stood now, breathing as he was, gave them more belief in healing than any white magic they had ever known.

"Seteth," they manage to say, only just keeping the stutter out of their voice. "I believe it is you who is the miracle."

Their voice softens at the end, wanting to say more but not knowing exactly what. So they settle for taking his hand, rough and warm in theirs, and entwining their fingers together.

(They felt his heart beating, swift but sure, under their fingers, and they know, that at this moment, things were as they should be.)

For a minute it's just them, side by side. The nearness of him was cathartic to them, and for a moment Byleth feels weightless, like they were standing in a dream and not a battlefield.

"We should get back to the monastery," he says eventually, squeezing their hand lightly before taking a step forward. "If we move, now we should make it before dusk."

They nod, and they go their separate ways. The hope they can resume where they left off crosses their mind before they push it away for a later time, so they could figure out exactly what it was they just had.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It's been a few days since that disaster of a battle, and Byleth is tired.

Their army was marching to Enbarr at the end of the week, and their days had been filled with all manners of preparation. Talk of strategies and tactics went round and round in the Cardinal's room, practically from dawn to dusk, and any time they spent outside of meetings was spent training. Target practice with Mercedes, dueling with Petra, grappling with Balthus.

Today had been particularly rigorous in the magic department, after lunch with Annette and Lysithea turned into a refresher on all things magic, and Byleth's hands took the brunt of it. The skin was dry and peeling, and remnants of magic had spidered up their wrists through their veins, making them throb just as a bruise would. 

They pondered going to Manuela for a salve, but all they wanted to was curl up in bed and sleep, so that's what they were going to do. They could treat them in the morning, they decided. 

Of course, just as they made this decision, a knock sounded on their door, to their great annoyance.

"Professor? It's Seteth. Have you a moment?"

They could pretend to be asleep already, but the thought of seeing Seteth won out in appeal, surprisingly, so they swallowed a yawn and stood, ambling over to open the door.

"I thought I told you to call me Byleth," they say by way of greeting, leaning against the doorframe. 

He was still in his normal attire, standing straight as ever, while Byleth was in their nightclothes, but considering a simple tunic and loose pants weren't particularly scandalous, they didn't really mind.

Seteth pauses, looking a little hesitant. "Old habit, I'm afraid. My apologies, Byleth." He speaks their name like it's the most natural thing in the world, and Byleth rewards him with a smile, small but bright.

(They feel a little dizzy too, after he says it, but it must be the training, they think.)

It's then they notice the small container in his hand, and they tilt their head, curious. "What's in your hand?"

Seteth looks down the container as if just remembering it was there and clears his throat. "Ah, yes. Flayn saw your hands at dinner and insisted I bring this salve to you, as she guessed you wouldn't go to the infirmary tonight, considering your schedule." He eyes their hands, calculating. "And it looks to me that she was right."

Byleth blinks, feeling rather touched by Flayn's thoughtfulness. "Please thank her for me," they say after a beat. "I'll put some on right now, I think."

"It looks like that would be best," agrees Seteth. He pauses, pondering something, before speaking again, a little more quietly. "I would be happy to apply it for you, if you wish. You helped me after the last battle, after all."

The thought was entirely too charming, and they find themself nodding in agreement before their mind could catch up, stepping back to invite Seteth in. Their room was relatively bare, and the only place the both of them could sit was on their bed, so that's where Byleth goes, looking at Seteth expectantly until he sat next to them.

(His cheeks were a little flushed, and Byleth didn't think they've seen anything cuter than that.)

He placed the container next to them, unscrewing the lid to reveal pale mixture that smelled faintly of mint. Taking Byleth's hand in his own, he applied it gently, starting at their wrist in a circular motion.

His actions were undeniably tender, and it was then that the word love suddenly blazed itself through Byleth's mind. Of course, they thought. The lightness, the comfort, the peace they felt when it came to Seteth. It was love.

In that moment, everything shifts.

They take a sharp intake of breath, and Seteth stops immediately. "Are you all right?" He asked, his concern evident.

"Yes," Byleth answered, voice wavering. They breathe again, shakily. "I just realized something." There's phantom wetness in their eyes, but no tears come. 

"What is it?" There must be something on their face, because he takes his other hand to grasp both of theirs, firmly. "Is there something troubling you?"

They feel comforted to know what it was they felt, and yet. It was as if everything had flipped, and they were still pointing upside down, utterly disoriented.

"Byleth?" He comes back into focus, worry etched on his face.

"Seteth," They whisper, voice suddenly thick with emotion. They clear their throat, grounded by his hands in theirs.

"I love you." Byleth gazes at him as he processes what they say, and he turns a bright, bright red almost instantly, completely shocked.

"You love me?" He asked, sounding absolutely dumbfounded.

They nod, resolute. "Yes. I love you. Very much."

He doesn't reply right away after that, clearly thinking quite hard, and Byleth uncertainly begins to retreat, cursing their mind for speaking so rashly.

But before they draw away completely, Seteth's hands are on their face, and he's giving them a small smile, his face the softest they've ever seen.

"Byleth," he whispers, with reverence. "I love you too. You are irreplaceable to me. I do not think I can fathom a life without you, and..." He trails off, blush in full force. " I would like to remain ever at your side, if you'll have me."

Byleth's answer is to close the distance between them, hands cupping his face. They kiss him slowly, delicately, soft as a butterfly's wing as he responds in turn, arms circling their waist as he leans against them. Maybe it lasts a minute, or maybe an hour. At that moment, all Byleth knows is the warmth of his skin, the gentle way he holds them, the way they felt at home in his arms. They feel rather than see his smile as they part, still lingering. They can't resist another little peck before settling against him, a foreign but completely welcome kind of comfort washing over them. 

Time was quite obviously the way scars healed. But someone once told them love was the cure for all, and while that wasn't necessarily correct, they think there's some truth in that.

(This, Byleth thinks, is one of the many ways one could have a heart.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so so much for reading!! i appreciate you more than you know. this is kinda weird and messy and i'm definitely reminded of how insecure i am about my writing but yeah!! i hope you had as much fun reading this as i did writing it!


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